A Pocket Archive (31)

My grandfather looked up from the dining table and smiled, the soft glow of the hall lamp glinting off his glasses, giving him a strange, almost wizardly appearance. He'd always reminded me of Santa Claus, especially whenever he was working on something. It was nice to see that he could use his fingers properly again. Several carving tools lay on a quilted floral placemat near his arm, along with a carpenter pencil, a rectangular magnifying glass, and a small pile of spiraled wood shavings, several more of which dotted the floor. I could feel them sticking to the soles of my feet as I moved across the cold tile to sit in the chair next to him.

I picked up a partially-carved piece of wood from the table. It was a man in slacks and short sleeves holding a woman in his arms. Faint pencil marked where my grandfather had started mapping out their finer details, but he had yet to render them fully.

"What's this?"

"That's me and your grandma when we started going together."

I turned the half-finished sculpture around in my hands, admiring it. Grandpa had never been very good at faces (he'd stopped trying after my grandmother pointed this out to him), but it didn't matter; he was still marvelous at portraits and had an eye for strangely specific details. You could always tell who his subjects were. He was good at capturing people's physical likeness and mannerisms in a way that made faces almost unnecessary.

Several glass cabinets around the living room held decades of the 3-dimensional family portraits, some of which were new, and others of which had been there for almost as long as I could remember. I'd never realized they had titles until this visit, however, when for some reason I'd suddenly thought to crane my neck enough to read the undersides of the sculptures' bases through the glass shelves they sat on.

'Morning Coffee' might have been my new favorite; it featured my father, reclined in his armchair with a cup of coffee in one hand, a very chubby cat on his lap, and a toddler with a thumb in her mouth snuggled tightly between them. Grandpa hadn't given her a face, but he'd captured her wild tufts of wispy half-curls and my dad's characteristic house slippers, sticking out from beneath folds of a carved blanket. He'd also added a remote that looked like it was in danger of falling off my father's knee at any moment. It was so alive I could almost hear the sound of cartoons playing on the ommited television.

Another new addition sat on the shelf above it. This one was called 'Easter Sunday', and it depicted my adoptive cousin's little girls dying Easter eggs with my grandma at the kitchen counter. Grandpa had even carved candy wrappers and a half demolished chocolate bunny next to the egg spoons and all the little dye cups, then had glued several tiny jelly beans to the counter top. Lastly, there was 'I do', a wedding scene that spanned half a coffee table.

This sculpture was his biggest and seemed like it had been made with extra tenderness carved into it. On its right, there was a small alter with a Bible and a cross flanked by three candles on each side, while the left of the sculpture was occupied by an elderly pastor with a bible in his hands. He was rendered with simple details, sporting a large crucifix on his chest and vestments marked with the traditional shell and water droplets that symbolized baptism as well as the Greek letters signaling God as Alpha and Omega. The officiant's gaze was directed on the center of the piece, where a couple was locked in a wooden kiss, the groom's neck craned down so his head was almost level with his bride's in a way that would have been painfully awkward if it wasn't so adorable.

I ran my thumb gently over the carving in my hands, pausing briefly on the woman's face, suddenly struck again by how cyclical it all felt. I thought of the crayon on my library card and the way the lines composing the letters in the birthday cards my grandparents sent had slowly devolved, becoming looser and more wobbly over the years, as though they, like time, were slowly unraveling themselves the closer they came to the end. It was sweet, though, how the older he got, everything he did always came back to her, similar to the way a well-written story always finds its way back to its origins near the final chapters.

I set the sculpture down, trying not to sigh. It was good that we had come. I didn't like thinking of endings, even if all of our goodbyes would be temporary. I had lost so much time and it felt like even more years were being siphoned away every time I imaged what a few more years would mean for my family. In a way, I was grateful time was moving faster, but I still felt furious when I imagined all the things I was afraid I would miss.

"Hey..."

My grandfather set a hand on my wrist. Startled, I jumped, before placing my hand on top his and giving it a gentle squeeze. His eyes were twinkling more than usual and I almost predicted his next words before he said them.

"He seems really nice. I think you got a good one. We really, really like him."

I smiled, noticing that he'd changed the giant's name to its Danish equivalent. "I think so too. I was hoping you would." I nodded to the shelf of cheap paperback romances behind him. "I mean, I knew grandma would."

Grandpa chuckled. "Yes. I believe the word she used was 'yummy'."

I laughed, letting my gaze slide to back to the sculpture, then to the gold wedding band and wrinkles on my grandfather's fingers. I was so glad they didn't shake anymore.

"You seem a lot better." I said.

"So do you."

My grandfather gave my hand a pat before pulling his out from under mine, then stood up and stretched with a series of loud crackling before padding softly into the kitchen.

"Tea?"